


Insert Part D into Part A

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Domestic Fluff, Double Entendre, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, IKEA, John has learned to drive, M/M, Sexual Humor, Smut, assembling IKEA furniture is a nightmare, breaking in new black sheets is much more fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock drive to IKEA to buy some needed household items, including a new bed frame. Bickering, flirting, more bickering, teasing, tool puns, and eventual sexy smut ensue.</p><p>(This work is a gift for waiting-for-garridebs, who won a fic prompt fill from me as a prize in the 'Tumblr Goes Hollywood - The Oscar Competition.' I've spun two prompt suggestions -- John and Sherlock driving together and the boys in IKEA -- into this bit of fluff.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insert Part D into Part A

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wfg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wfg/gifts).



“It’s never going to fit. That space is far too narrow.”

John gripped the steering wheel and silently counted to 10 to quell his irritation, determined to ignore Sherlock’s unwanted advice. He carefully lined up the front of the black Land Rover and began to ease into the parking space.

“I really don’t--” Sherlock cautioned, then stopped as John precisely slotted the car in between two other mammoth vehicles. “Fine. I just hope I can open my door far enough to get out,” he muttered.

“Look, we’re here, let’s just get this over with,” John gritted out. It was a stupid idea. His own stupid idea, in fact, to keep the hired Land Rover an extra day after traveling for a case. They’d needed to run some errands, and it was such a rare freedom to have a car instead of relying on taxis and the tube, and now that he had his license and could drive -- well, that was a rare treat, too. Although not so much with Sherlock in the front seat critiquing every move.

“How long is this going to take?” Sherlock asked peevishly.

‘Well, we would have been here sooner if someone had remembered to fill up the car like he was supposed to last night,” John snapped. “Do you have the list?”

“What list?”

“The list we made -- it was right on the table this morning at the inn. Didn’t you pick it up?”

Sherlock shrugged, studied his watch intently.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John sighed, already exhausted. “Let’s just go in.”

They both looked with trepidation at the giant store looming in front of them, the blue and yellow IKEA logo beckoning cheerfully. Or maybe it was ominously.

John wrenched open his door and strode with determination toward the entrance. Sherlock watched him, then took a deep breath and opened his door. “Right, then. Into battle.”

*******************

John could remember most of the items on the list. New plates, not chipped. Check. New bath towels, not threadbare. Check. New pots, no chemical burns. Check.

Next, the big item. New bed frame. The old one in Sherlock’s room had met an untimely end after a particularly enthusiastic night, the wooden rails splitting not so much with a loud crack as with a resigned sag.

Sherlock would insist on having a say in the selection of the bed. John had gladly left him behind somewhere in the home office section and now texted him.

_Meet me in the bedroom area._

Sherlock texted back almost immediately.

_Is that a proposition?_

John smiled, adjusted the strap of the oversized blue bag on his shoulder, glad their snappish bickering had cooled down. It was always like that between them -- tempers flaring one moment, slamming doors or sinking into sulky silences, then it would blow over, and they might have tea or watch telly or read quietly or make love. It wasn’t particularly mature, but it was their convoluted way of communicating that somehow worked.

John found Sherlock reading the tag on a sleek black bed frame.

“These names are ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “ _Blarsplot._ What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“I've no idea. How much is it?”

Sherlock turned the tag so John could see. His face blanched. “Umm, let’s have a look around.”

They circled around the bedroom displays, Sherlock making snide comments about the carefully staged scenes. “How very ’80s. Ugh, rustic. Oh, and here we have ‘industrial.’” He sidled up behind John, whispered in his ear. “Can you feel it, the urban excitement of stainless steel and pressed wood?”

John fought down a grin at Sherlock’s sarcasm. “I think I like the Blarsplot the best.”

They returned to the simple black frame and headboard. Sherlock fingered the linens on the display bed and smirked. “Look at the name of the sheets.”

 _Monen,_ John read.

“Monen on the bed. I quite like the sound of that,” Sherlock purred, sliding his hand briefly over John’s arse. “Add those to the list. In black.”

John felt the blood rush to his groin at the thought of Sherlock’s pale body stretched out against the dark, tightly woven cotton fabric. He cleared his throat, jotted down the sheet details with a stubby yellow pencil, then added another item: Candles. Yes, candles would be nice.

**************

Four hours later, their mood had soured considerably again, an ugly mess of cardboard, assorted screws and washers, wooden slats, a partially constructed frame, and incomprehensible assembly instructions scattered on the sitting room floor of the Baker Street flat.

“For God’s sake, how are these different?” John asked in despair, holding up a handful of screws.

Sherlock sat on the floor, clutching his head as he studied the diagram. “We’re missing a piece. Where the hell is it? Where’s part M?”

“It’s got to be here. Is it this one?”

“No, no, no. That has a notch. Look -- part M clearly has no notch.”

“This one?”

“That has a groove. Do you see a groove in this picture?”

“Fine.” John stood up and headed to the kitchen. “I’m getting a beer.”

“Godammit. Now where’s the wrench thingy? Fuck,” Sherlock muttered. “Fuck this fuckery.”

John returned, tapped his shoulder with a cold bottle of beer. “It’s late. Take a break.”

Sherlock accepted the bottle and leaned dejectedly against his chair that had been pushed back to make room for the project. “This was a terrible idea.”

John sat on the floor across from him, propped against his chair. He took a long pull from the bottle. “But the Swedish meatballs were good.”

“Average,” Sherlock grumbled, then sighed, pushing a mess of curls back from his forehead. “How can this be so impossible?”

“‘Sherlock Holmes Defeated by Swedish Nemesis,’” John teased, holding up his hands as if framing a headline. “‘Boffin Detective Baffled by Bedframe.’”

“Don’t you dare blog about this,” Sherlock warned.

John grinned. “‘The Blarsplot Plot.’ Perfect title.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, took a drink, smiling despite himself.

“You know,” John said casually, holding up the unopened package of black sheets that had been tossed aside. “There is one project we could finish tonight… just slipping these sheets onto the mattress. Even you could manage that.”

“Oh, shut up.”

John took another drink, deliberately letting his mouth linger over the top of the long cylinder in his hand. He lowered the bottle, licked his lips. “Make me.”

**************

They tugged the fitted sheet over the corners of the mattress that now rested on the floor of Sherlock’s bedroom, then slipped their clothes off, lowering down to the springy surface. The sheets were crisp and smelled of dark, inky dye, the new candles casting a flickering glow in the room.

They lay on their sides, kissing the corners of mouths and under jaws and along necks, stroking fingers down the lengths of backs and up thighs, almost forgetting part M and wrenches and diagrams.

But then John smiled to himself, and Sherlock felt the upward curve of his mouth. “What?”

“I have a terrible urge to make dirty jokes about screwing and pounding furniture,” John admitted, nuzzling his nose against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock ran his hands over the firmness of John’s arse. “And drilling and nailing, of course,” he added, his voice more broken and husky than he intended.

John grinned, pushing aside Sherlock’s leg to position himself between his thighs, bracing himself on his elbows, sweeping a kiss along his mouth. “And don’t forget tongue-and-grooves,” John whispered suggestively before kissing his way down Sherlock’s chest to his abdomen, then sliding down to suck gently at the skin just inside his thigh.

“Nghhh,” Sherlock replied nonsensically, any clever retorts forgotten as John’s tongue licked a sensitive path up his cock, around the rim, lapping over the top and down again... Sherlock’s neck arched back, his knees drawn up, his fingertips vaguely registering the wrinkles forming in the new sheets.

Leaving Sherlock tantalizingly stiff, John skimmed up Sherlock’s torso, returning to his mouth. “Ready for the next step?” John breathed in a low voice, sliding a finger slowly into Sherlock, eliciting a small groan. He nibbled gently on Sherlock’s lower lip and slowly added another finger.

“Use your… biggest tool,” Sherlock finally managed to gasp, clutching at John’s waist as he writhed underneath him.

“Awful pun,” John teased, shifting between the pale legs once more, pressing himself against a very pliant Sherlock. “Now we insert part D into part A,” he murmured, easing forward.

“Nghhh,” Sherlock agreed, thinking hazily that they should assemble furniture more often.


End file.
